


Predation

by TeamSeaSlug



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Also Strangling, Animal Death, Animal Metaphors, Attempting to grow is hard, Family Bonding but it sucks, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Minor Violence, No Romance, Someone Gets Stabbed But It's Okay, There's a kiss but it's not romantic it's just Vincent, Time Skips, minor stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamSeaSlug/pseuds/TeamSeaSlug
Summary: Break didn’t know how to feel about that. He wasn’t fond of Vincent by any means, he was much less fond of him than he was Gilbert, but he felt that it was his duty to encourage patience instead of cruelty. Or, rather, patience when needed and cruelty when necessary. Vincent wasn’t terrifying and he wasn’t cruel, he was thirteen years old, though something about him implied that he would accept the world if it ended that very day with a sly smile and a “What can you do?”, as if he had been born for that event.(On Children of Misfortune, Growth, the Cycle of Violence, and Showing Love).
Relationships: Xerxes Break & Sharon Rainsworth, Xerxes Break & Vincent Nightray
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Predation

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose if I want Vincent & Break no ship stuff I should probably write it myself. This took embarrassingly long to write, so sorry that I post so infrequently.

It always started the same, with one hand crossing the other, keeping his fingers loose enough to indicate his lack of possession but still tight enough to cling with purpose. One way, then the next, he would weave hair so soft and so terribly familiar, more familiar to him than his own name, what he used to look like, what he used to be.

Sharon only wanted her hair to be braided under very specific circumstances: when she craved touch, comfort, and the only appropriate way for him to come into physical contact with her was through a command. He had been doing it since she was a small child, though the frequency thinned as the years stretched. What was once a simple order for him to learn became a ritual bond between the two. It was a very straight-forward action that could give her the emotional support that she needed and allowed him to avoid giving her anything that required true effort on his part, so a win-win for him. The Rainsworth women were all very thoughtful about everything and it was a trait that Break appreciated, though he wasn’t sure if it was by choice or because he was used to it.

Break wasn’t exactly sure what he would say if she asked him to say anything on it and thus he kept silent, or as silent as he could, while braiding her hair. And by ‘as silent as he could’, he actually chattered about seemingly aimlessly, with the intent of distracting the darling girl from her recently deceased mother.

The poor thing. She knew that he was saddened, too. Maybe the touch was for his benefit as well.

The Rainsworth women were all so terribly thoughtful about everything.

Sharon interrupted his deliberate chatter and piss poor attempt at being an actually helpful man with a, “I don’t think I’ll be going outside today.”

Sharon was already dressed, with her high collar, draped sleeves, her age appropriate earrings. She did not have on gloves but she did go through all of that trouble with a petticoat and demanding that Break do her hair to her exact specifications. The black clothes that she wore did not suit her but it was not in his place to dissuade her from wearing it when his own attire was as gloomy as hers. There was a time and place for everything.

“Why is that?” he questioned, not stopping in his motions. When he looked up from his hands he noticed that she was staring directly at her own reflection in the mirror, staring at the half curse, half blessing of familial resemblance to the dead. Staring at the face that would grow to look just like her beloved mother. He wondered if she found it comforting or tragic. Her face did not give her thoughts away.

“There is a creature living underneath the manor, Break. Did you not hear?”

Break chortled in response to such a bizarre statement, but Sharon did not appear to be amused in the slightest. He didn’t like seeing such a young child frown so, especially when it was very unnatural to her. Sharon was a delightful girl and she was so terribly sad now, speaking of phantoms and looking of poor, beautiful, dead Shelly.

“A creature? Like a monster?” He smiled in a way that showed his teeth. He slowed the movements of his hands so as to not knot her hair so disastrously, though the amusement of doing so would prove that he was truly a silly, silly man, and that she should treat him as her little jester, and not an emotional crutch. He simply wasn’t good at it.

“Nothing so absurd,” Sharon said, her face changing for a moment to something delightfully familiar. Her eyes in the mirror moved off of her own visage to look at him in the reflection. She looked like her old self for the shortest of time. “just an animal. It bit someone recently and they have been unwell since.”

Break actually had heard of the incident. It was recent. The woman in question was a maid, going out of the manor to wash linens. Something had crawled out of the bramble to strike her ankle, to which she promptly fell ill after struggling with the pain of the ordeal. The maid was not one for faking things to get out of work so Break had not made any effort to see the injury, simply believing that it had happened. Break figured the critter had probably left the area by now because of all of the fuss about it and the death of the recently dearly departed Shelly, but the idea of it making home was a bit troublesome. Not troublesome enough to act like it was anything that he had more than a passing thought about, though.

“It more than likely won’t bother you,” Break assured, still smiling at the girl through the mirror. “so I don’t see why you should be so afraid as to not leave the house.” Besides, getting out was probably good for the grieving girl, even if it was just to get fresh air.

Sharon didn’t look particularly convinced. She frowned, but not in the truly miserable way she had been frowning for the past few days. “It might be poisonous or diseased,” she said, so pathetically it genuinely made Break feel a little sorry for her.

And because he felt that way, he chose to mock her, correcting her in an obnoxious tone: “Venomous.” 

It worked, though, for her reaction was exactly what he wanted; knit eyebrows and a frown that was nowhere near as serious as all of her ones beforehand had been. Making fun of her, and in turn making fun of himself for picking at a child, was almost always successful, so he reveled in it. If he had to lower himself to joking around for the amusement of a thirteen year old girl, then so be it. Break went back to finishing the braid on her hair, not speaking until it was done with.

“I wouldn’t worry about those things. That’s what I’m here for! What point would I have if you would spend your days cowering about indoors because of a sniveling little snake underneath your home?” He tossed her braid over her shoulder so she could admire how long her hair had grown, taking the moment to touch her shoulders firmly, grip so sturdy as if to ground her to where she was and ground her to him.

She cracked a smile that didn’t completely meet her eyes, but it was a start. She looked warily at him, leaning into his familial touch. He stroked the black frills on her narrow shoulders and thought that yes, what point would he have if she could not continue to live her normal life? He was nothing without his purpose.

So much more bold than Xerxes Break could ever be, Sharon raised up a tiny hand to place over one of the ones on her shoulder, trapping him. Ah, so it was like that. Her attempting to comfort him while he was trying to comfort her. What a sad clown he was, truly, if he had to take comfort from a child.

“I will go out,” she said carefully, not even giving a glance to the braid that she had given very clear instructions on how to do. He had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t care about it at all. “on a condition. If you go outside and get rid of that critter I will come out.”

“You don’t want me to kill it?” Break mocked, but Sharon took no part in his games.

“If you so wish to do so then you can, but I would feel much better if it was alive and elsewhere. I don’t wish for it to hurt anyone else. I just want it gone.” There was no mention of Break possibly being bit by the creature as if Sharon lived in a world where he was completely immune to anything happening to him. Silly girl. Did she think he was immortal? “What I said still stands. I will not leave for the outside until the critter is taken care of, Big Brother Xerxes.”

Clever Sharon chose to deliberately use the name to set him to the task, but it wasn’t exactly necessary. With a squeeze of her hand she released him from her grip and Break dipped his head before exiting to hunt the monster down. He, truthfully, expected to find nothing due to the cold air, but he would do as she said. Bright leaves littered the ground in a halo around the Rainsworth manor, the crisp autumn day giving Break no confidence in hunting for venomous creatures.

There was also the possibility that it was not a snake at all, but a rat or a spider or something along those lines. There was the possibility that it was a raccoon that was sick in the brain. There was a possibility that there truly was no monster and Sharon was attempting to get him to go outside and get some fresh air in an effort to comfort him.

The air, when he did exit the manor, was biting but not so cold that it was unpleasant or a threat to Sharon’s health. The smell of dead leaves burning off somewhere on the property filled his nostrils and he put his already too-cold hands inside the folds of his coat in an effort to keep them working properly. He set off to hunt for the critter, but realized a bit too late he had nothing but his sword and his reflexes.

Searching was not an easy task. He loathed to get his mourning clothes so filthy, so he nudged at bushes and brambles with his cane and poked about until anything slithered out. Nothing was so kind as to cut his task short. The activity truly was fitting more for a dog, really, or another animal, but then again, what was Break if not the Rainsworth’s pet, and what was he doing if not protecting his nest? He continued to hunt.

Perhaps the creature truly was something so small that it could fit underneath the manor, he wondered, after searching for some time. If that was the case it would be incredibly troublesome. The weather grew cold to the point of unpleasant after some time and Break took notice that the smell of the air changed, implying that rain would be approaching. He was sure that walking amongst wet leaves wouldn’t be a pastime to cheer up the young lady, and it wouldn’t take too long for the cold autumn day to slip into a dark evening and a velvet night. Feeling more and more unsure that he would ever catch the creature, or if it even existed, Break resolved to go back inside and light a fire for Sharon to read by and spend another day isolated in mourning. Perhaps she would forget about it in time.

With a single drop of rain on his nose affirming his decision, he cast a wary look behind him with his hand to the front door, as if the creature would show itself to him politely for him to catch. He saw nothing. He heard nothing other than the sparse and quiet pitter-patter of the rain beginning and the low hum of his Chain in the back of his mind, restless and craving destruction in even the mundane.

He went back inside.

X

Gilbert appeared to have a hard time adjusting to his new life, which wasn’t a surprise, but Break felt that he could at least do a better job of pretending that he wasn’t struggling with it as much as he was. Perhaps it was part of the boy's charm, to wear his heart so tenderly on his own black sleeve, even if that sleeve was now made of much nicer material. But Gilbert didn’t seem to wear the material right yet, even when it was fit to his scraggly body, as if his mental aversion to anything nice not staying with him showed even in his physical form. Which was a preposterous idea but Gilbert was such a comically miserable little kid that it somehow worked, in its own sad way. Break would truly pity him if he wasn’t such a caricature of a sad person.

Break sat with his legs crossed on a bench, awaiting for Gilbert to meet him for their private lessons. The evening was coming down cool, melancholy, blue, and ghosts of activity were meeting his ears as people were leaving to go home for the day. Leaves crunched, orange and dead, underneath activity and Break wondered if Gilbert had ever been the type to want to play in the leaves, or if he had always been so morose.

In a way, he knew that their bi-weekly lessons were incredibly helpful to the young boy and provided some sort of stability in his life. They hadn’t started doing so much too long ago, but giving Gilbert some form of structure and consistency was bound to save him from whatever hell he was trapped in living amongst Nightray. It also took him away from his apparently  _ too _ clingy younger brother.

And ominously, as if on call, the devil child appeared before him when Break lifted his head after hearing the crunching of leaves to his right. A peculiar sight, too, for Vincent never came to greet Break- and his brother, who he was waiting for, wasn’t with him.

Break had only ever spoken to the boy one time, in the snow where the child gave him an ominous yet doable task. He had encountered him once prior to that in the depths of the Abyss and either the child merely did not recall such an event or eerily was pretending that they had never met for his own gain. The idea of a child having an agenda was absurd but when it was a child that had clearly been to that hellish room it seemed less preposterous.

Break knew what he had done to even get there and shuddered to think of what the boy could even be capable of. When they had spoken the one time he seemed to be a haunted child, though by what Break had no idea of ever knowing. Perhaps an inherited haunting, something that permeated Vincent’s entire body and effected the entire world around him?

How terrible.

Break couldn’t bring himself to smile at the young boy when he approached, so he dipped his head in a nod so he could try again. Much better. “Good evening,” he said without any real purpose, merely hoping that the boy would keep walking and not converse with him. But he didn’t, he stopped in front of Break with a gentle purpose and it made him want to groan.

Did he have any reason to dislike or feel uneasy around Vincent Nightray? Not particularly, he didn’t know much of the child other than what he had heard: eccentric, a little misanthropic, one that didn’t particularly get along with the other Nightrays, though he had heard the boy had been showing his face a little more since Gilbert had joined the family. Perhaps that was all he truly wanted and that wouldn’t be unreasonable.

Vincent had a scarf on and was dressed in a very long winter coat, his little hands hidden inside. When he spoke, he chose every word deliberately in a way that Break wasn’t exactly sure he had ever seen before, as if the kid was unused to speaking but not because he did not know how. 

“Good evening,” he returned, a boyish and sweet smile on his face, though Break thought he looked awfully cat-like in a way he couldn’t pin down. “we’ve met before, sir.”

Break wasn’t sure what to say to that. Vincent had said it as if it was an accusation and it would have made Break uncomfortable if he hadn’t already guessed that their previous encounter had either left his brain entirely or would be deliberately not mentioned. Why would Vincent play his hand so early, if he did intend to call him out on being in the Abyss? 

“Have we?” Break said, mockingly coy. He had to watch his tongue around nobles, especially the eccentric ones, but children liked clowns and he could be a clown for the little man if he so wanted.

Vincent was neither amused nor annoyed. He nodded, but then tilted his head as if he was still attempting to place exactly where he had seen Break before. Well, Break didn’t know how old the boy was, but if he was close to Gilbert in age then he would have been young when he gave the task of finding his biological brother, so perhaps it was reasonable for him to not recall. The child looked not too far from Sharon’s age, though he was built like he could be knocked over by a particularly strong gust of wind. He had the visage of what would be a cute child but there was an error on his face, and Break wished, wholeheartedly, when Sharon became interested in dating, that this was not the sort of person she would ever be into.

Break didn’t like how Vincent studied his face so he helped him with, “You know, I do seem to recall us meeting once before, but it was many years ago.”

Vincent looked off to the side and then nodded, and the display somehow made Break feel more annoyed than anything, like a truly deliberate attempt to convince the man that he had been considering what he said, but also intentionally fake so Break would know. The paradox of his movements was too intelligent for a child and yet so childishly intentional that it made him want to leave and barely any words had been exchanged.

“That has to be it, then. I saw you sitting down and I couldn’t stop thinking about where I’d met you before,” he explained all in a sigh. “I usually have a good memory.”

Break was sure the boy had a much better memory than he was letting on, but he played his little game and offered what he clearly wanted, “Sometime in winter, perhaps?”

“Yes… that must be it...” Vincent then suddenly giggled, as if something about that was funny to him. “In snow. You look like snow yourself, you know. A snowman.”

Break didn’t know what to say to that at all. If it was a jab or a joke, it wasn’t exactly a very funny one. Besides, he barely had any room to talk.

Vincent added, still seeming perfectly amused: “Or some sort of weasel.”

When Break didn’t give the boy any sort of response he wanted, merely faking amusement in a not particularly convincing way, Vincent seemed to give up in whatever game he was attempting to play. He stated as a fact, “You helped find Gil.”

He wasn’t sure how Vincent had known that, other than simply recounting the tale of Break receiving said task to do so in his own head. But nothing about Gilbert going to the house of Nightray publicly had anything to do with Xerxes Break. The child wasn’t a very good liar, but he wasn’t sure that Gilbert would willingly talk about Break’s direct involvement, especially with the blond before him. Was lying by omission impossible for him, or was Vincent merely that aware of his surroundings and the connecting threads between them?

Break loathed the idea of the latter.

Lying would be a good idea for Break to do, but before he could even lie he was interrupted with a, “I should thank you for that,” leaving Break with the knowledge that there was no lying out of it and that Vincent was aware that the fact he was speaking was certain. So Break dipped his head, accepting the fact that he had lost the interaction before it had even started.

“I heard that the child was missing and merely tipped his sighting off,” he downplayed, unsure if Vincent would listen to it or not. Normally Break would relish in the idea of someone being indebted to him, but he wanted to limit his encounters with Vincent Nightray to as few as possible… and it was probably some sort of sin to have children in debt to him. Not that he cared that much. “It would do no good for him to remain missing after I had spotted him. Everything else had nothing to do with me.”

Vincent looked thoughtful but clearly hesitated to speak. Break took notice of the fact that despite saying that he  _ should  _ thank Break, he did not. 

“Is that so?” he said after a moment, before giggling about something that only he would ever understand or find funny.

Break decided to change the subject. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you alone? Nobles shouldn’t be unguarded,” he made a show of looking around for anyone to watch the young boy. “and I don’t see anyone with you at the moment.”

Vincent, for once, had a seemingly normal response, proving that he certainly was a child and not someone masquerading as one, not unlike how Break’s body was hiding his own age. He pursed his lips, turned himself point, showing in the distance what appeared to be Nightray servants overlooking another very young boy. The youngest, most likely, much younger than Vincent and Gilbert. “I slipped away for a moment to talk to you, is all. They don’t know where I am.”

“Well, they certainly should. What if something happened to you, little lord?”

Vincent smiled as if what Break said was terribly humorous. He couldn’t tell if he cared for the pet name or not. Instead of answering the question, annoyingly, he asked his own, “What is your name, sir?”

As loathe as Break was to tell him, he was sure the child would find out eventually, implying he didn’t already know what the answer was himself. “Xerxes Break.”

The child looked as if he didn’t accept the answer. He eyed him inquisitively and offered instead, “I’ve heard people call you ‘Mad Hatter’.”

“Simply a nickname of sorts, sir.”

“You don’t have a hat.”

“Not at this exact moment but I do often wear one, I assure you.”

Vincent grinned in a manner that, again, actually looked appropriate for his age, that actually looked genuine. Break was able to find it in himself to smile back and it was only so strained, pantomiming with no effort the act of tipping his hat to the child, and he seemed to respond honestly. The look seemed to fit him well, Break thought, much better than whatever look he had on prior, a look much too adult but not at all mature, a look that unsettled him deeply. Break was a children’s clown and this was a child, and despite all things prior he wondered if there was any sort of redemption ahead for him, in the eyes of the world, for whatever sin he carried around him like a blanket on his shoulders.

“Now, is there anything else I can do for you, Master Vincent?” he asked as kind as he could to a stranger and not one of his own.

Unsurprisingly, Vincent shook his head, tossing his hair about. Break considered asking him why he had even come to bother him in the first place, but after giving a look to one of the Nightray servants who was calling for him to return after spotting him in the distance, he answered the unspoken question on a cold breath.

“It’s good that we spoke like this,” he said, words visible in the air by his rosy face. “after all, it was inevitable we would feel this way.”

And Break knew in the very depths of him he would think of that parting phrase for years to come.

X

Gilbert rarely ever spoke of his family without prompting and within a short amount of time Break began to understand the habits and patterns of whenever he did choose to speak on any particular topic. Gilbert found comfort in the familiarity of Break but irritation in his deliberate annoyance and lectures hidden in riddles. He didn’t care to reveal much of himself unless he was looking for comfort, and he learned quick enough that Break was not one for comfort at all ー not just to the boy, but in general. It wasn’t anything personal, he liked him just fine, Break was just unsure he knew how to give what people came to him craving.

Gilbert spoke of his siblings if things were uneventful or even ‘positive’ in the Nightray household. He would offer Break tales on how one of the older Nightray boys had finally been allowed to keep a hound on the property but only if he took care of it, and how interesting it was to have something like that wandering about. Not good- but interesting. Gilbert also told him about Vincent getting even better with a gun and surpassing him very quickly in his studies and activities whenever he actually deigned to do them. Again, Gilbert never said them as if they were good- just interesting.

If something negative happened then he would wrap himself up in his own misery and sew his mouth shut, not to breathe a word to Break or Sharon about what happened to him. He would just show up to their bi-weekly meetings looking pale and petrified, shaking like a knock-kneed child with nothing to say as to what molded him in such a state. Perhaps he wanted Break to pry, to put a hand on his shoulder and ask him like a father, to squeeze him and catch his tears. And there were times, times where the boy looked so pitiful that Break  _ did _ falter and he would offer the boy something that certainly meant more to him than it did to Break. Something inconsequential, like a vague word of encouragement or a piece of candy that Gilbert would stare at with owlish eyes as if he was committing it to memory, cherishing it even if it wasn’t a flavor he liked.

Sharon had never called Break heartless with any  _ real _ meaning behind it, but he knew she felt bad for Gilbert. She would attempt to shield him, she would tell him things that weren’t exactly true but it seemed to make him feel a bit better. Break had no interest in deluding into any sort of fantasies that the boy had, he only wanted to encourage something that was doable and to mold him into a formidable man. Even when Break faltered, even when he frowned at Gilbert’s stuffy nose or bruised lip, he didn’t desire to take on the task of being the emotional crutch for yet another child.

He had failed the first time and he was barely doing a decent job with the current one, anyhow.

When Break did ask for more unimportant details, just because he was in the mood for it, Gilbert would often shrug if nothing new had happened but nothing so terrible as to keep him silent. After a while, he started to talk about the youngest brother more, but still very distant in his own words, as if he hadn’t connected with the idea that that was actually, in fact, his brother- just a boy who lived in the house that was not Gilbert’s home. And his own brother, his biological brother, he seemed to wish he would forget if he was not in his line of sight, as if whatever brief time he had away from Vincent was a paradise.

Break didn’t know how to feel about that. He wasn’t fond of Vincent by any means, he was much less fond of him than he was Gilbert, but he felt that it was his duty to encourage patience instead of cruelty. Or, rather, patience when needed and cruelty when necessary. Vincent wasn’t terrifying and he wasn’t cruel, he was thirteen years old, though something about him implied that he would accept the world if it ended that very day with a sly smile and a “What can you do?”, as if he had been born for that event.

Break couldn’t offer his little broken bird comfort but he could encourage his patience and he could encourage whatever advice that wasn’t nonsense that Sharon gave him. Gilbert, over time, began to bake pastries before dawn and he would wrap them in a little handkerchief to bring to Break on the days that they met. They were good and he praised the boy and that seemed as if it was enough for him to go on for another two weeks.

Eventually he asked Sharon about the sweets, after having had his fill of them until his back teeth ached, and she told him that she had encouraged Gilbert to create with his hands. She said that he grieved over every little thing he harmed with his hands, and that taking and consuming was terrifying to him, so she had told him to find purpose in creating. “That way,” she explained, “he can see his hands as tools for achievement instead of destruction.”

Break ran his tongue over his back teeth before contradicting her. “Achievement can be destruction.”

“To you. Is it so wrong for him to want to give to the world instead of taking, Break?”

Break held his words back and dipped his head, for he knew he could say nothing to her on the topic any longer. There were certain battles that he couldn’t win and he shouldn’t bother to try, and he felt he was a happier man knowing something like that.

He had tried passing the knowledge on to Gilbert with little results. For being so gloomy, Gilbert seemed to want to fight in any battle that he considered even to be a battle, even if it wasn’t using violence or words. Though the interesting part was (to Break exclusively, Gilbert didn’t find it intriguing in the slightest) that Gilbert didn’t even know  _ how _ he was supposed to fight these battles in the first place… only that he wished to. When they first had the discussion on it Break had laughed tumultuously.

The baked goods became very routine, though there came a time where Gilbert showed up without them and looked morose as ever. Pale and sickly, and walking with a timid little limp, Break eventually had him sit down and demanded to know what had his performance so atrocious. Gilbert had the nerve to look a little embarrassed, even if it was obvious to Break that some of his moaning was performative simply for the attention and compassion of Break- as if Gilbert was begging for someone to ask him what was wrong, but would cry while attempting to explain.

Gilbert peeled up one of the legs on his trousers to show a dog bite around his knee, red but not bleeding, though clearly a fresh injury, maybe obtained earlier in the morning. Break grimaced internally; it did actually look rather bad, and in a particularly tender spot when the boy walked. He could see the ring of where the teeth had bitten in and he assumed the texture of pants the boy was wearing had caused irritation.

When he looked back up at Gilbert’s face, sure enough, he looked as if he was going to cry. Break was not excited to have to deal with that and preferred to dissuade it from even happening in the first place. 

“Did you tell anyone about this?” he asked carefully, for it was necessary.

Gilbert shook his head wordlessly. The dynamic of the Nightray family was strange but Break was understanding more about it every passing incident. Attempting to convince Gilbert to tell someone about the bite would be useless.

“… Not even your brother?” he eventually asked, more out of curiosity than because he thought it would be a good idea. He left which brother up to interpretation, though one over the other was clearly the correct choice.

Gilbert shook his head and suddenly looked very, very sick at the mere mention of it; his face went pale, he began to rub his hands on his thighs anxiously. “No,” he croaked out, voice rough.

Break would have raised an eyebrow to prompt a clarification, but his hair hid half of his face, so he tipped his chin up. Gilbert opened his mouth and then closed it, looking like he wanted to say something but was much too petrified of whatever consequences there were to do so.

After sitting in silence for a moment Break felt very sick of it, sick of it all, and sighed, “Well, what do you want  _ me _ to do, then? The best I can offer is that you take some time off until you’ve been healed. Just clean it thoroughly and I'm sure you'll be fine.”

Those eyes widened. “Do you really mean…?” he trailed off, leaving the question in the air. Whether or not he was offended or flattered was unclear.

“Right now I do, so I hope you take the advice before I change my mind!” Break smiled wide. Gilbert rolled his pants leg back down roughly, not careful with his own injury as if it was already forgotten. The boy did seem to have a good physical constitution, but it couldn’t have felt better already.

Perhaps Break was feeling soft then, though he loathed to muse on it, but he put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Gilbert was staring up at him as if he had hung the moon, and while normally the gaze made him feel uncomfortable, he felt good under it, even if it was just in the moment. Later he knew if he reflected on the events of the day he would feel strange, being looked at in such a way for saying something so minuscule, but in that moment he was steadying the child from swaying too far, from worrying too much.

“Next time, I want you to bring some treats, too,” he said, selflessly and selfishly. Gilbert looked so hopeful that it was almost sickening, so Break gave his shoulder a pat and set him off to collect his things and take a day off to rest his knee for however long it would take for it to heal.

And he called, not thinking too much on it, after the boy’s back, “It will do you some good to tell someone about that injury, I’m sure!” And he didn’t realize what a mistake that was, or why he shouldn’t have said that, but Gilbert looked back at him, and in his eyes he could see the hesitation there. But it didn’t matter, and Break didn’t think to take it back, or to end it with a joke, so he let it hang in the air.

When he saw Gilbert next, he was physically fine and didn’t speak much of the prior incident. In fact, he never mentioned the Nightray family dog ever again.

X

The bet on “Would Vincent Nightray grow his hair out long?” would have been won by Break by a landslide if Sharon hadn’t changed her answer and attempted to pretend that she had always been a supporter of the Long Haired Vincent theory. For sure enough, when the Rainsworth household convened with the Nightray household for the winter holiday celebration held at Pandora, Vincent sat next to his brother the whole night, his hair much longer than when they had last seen him and showing no signs of stopping in its growth. Break knew he deserved the win but there was no use fighting Sharon, even if it was for the prize of a delicious treat. 

The Rainsworth household had given very similar gifts to all of the noble members of each of the households present (Duke Barma, of course, skipping on all formal events); a small pendant on a chain of the respective household symbol. The Vessalius family did not stay for long and quickly dismissed themselves after the festivities died down, whereas the Nightray household, always the opposite, lingered and interacted in a long banter with each other and Duchess Sheryl, keeping Break from sneaking out or leaving with Sharon entirely.

Gilbert and Vincent were very clearly outcasts, sitting with each other and looking  _ very _ bored, even for teenagers at family functions. Gilbert wore the typical scowl of any seventeen year old who was forced to go somewhere that he did not care to, and he seemed to be wondering why he and Vincent were even invited in the first place. Vincent was unreadable, but hadn’t left his brothers side the entire party, so Break could assume that he shared the sentiment.

Throughout the few years that he had “known” Vincent, though he knew nothing about him, Break had properly decided that he wasn’t fond of him. Before, when he interacted with Vincent he knew he disliked him but had been looking for a personality trait or mannerism that he could latch on to that would explain why he didn’t like him. As Vincent got older, he offered a plethora of traits to choose from: he was a liar, he was clingy to Gilbert, he was unfunny, he delighted in making people feel uncomfortable. One time he broke into Break’s private room at Pandora and cut up a hat that he had rather liked… though there was no proof it was him, it was obvious that it was. Break tried a new excuse as to why he disliked him per day.

Though he looked docile sitting next to his brother, not talking to anyone unless spoken to first, usually by Sharon. Sharon didn’t seem to think he was so bad despite Break telling her numerous times that he did, in fact, think there were more flaws to his character than virtues- and not even in a fun and amusing way, like Break himself. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly a bad thing that she didn’t see anything wrong with him as he had never given her any reason to dislike him. Surely that option would have been worse than refusing to take Break’s word on it.

It didn’t mean that Break had to like it, though, even if it was the better alternative. In fact, Break would highly prefer if the two didn’t speak at all, for reasons he couldn’t exactly name. There wasn't anything specific he thought Vincent would do, nothing he thought he would say that Sharon would really believe, but it made him feel uneasy. He was sure Sharon could tell, too, for she knew all of the subtleties of him too well.

Sharon looked so small compared to the two despite being the same age as Vincent, who was growing normally. He didn’t look as scrawny as he had when he was younger, though he wasn’t big at all. Where Gilbert had suddenly shot up to the point that none of his clothes seemed to fit anymore (and truly, Gilbert dressed for events as if he only had mourning clothes to wear, somber and black) and whenever the Nightrays obtained a replacement they were again suddenly too small; Vincent was growing steady and even, and would probably settle gently into about Break’s height if he didn’t suddenly flinch into being shorter or taller than him. The mental idea of being the exact height of Vincent, eye to eye with him, didn’t feel right. It made them feel too similar.

Sharon had granted them the relief from their awkwardness using the gift of her presence and conversation. Despite not knowing her very well, Vincent was chattier than Gilbert was, who just looked uncomfortable to have his friend and his brother in the same room and talking so close to him. And while Vincent didn’t say anything inappropriate, Break shared the feeling.

Vincent’s attire was black and yellow, his sweater patterned on his chest, and he had the box he was gifted sitting on the skirt covering his thighs. He more than likely would get some use out of the impersonal gift and seemed to have no qualms about wearing something displaying his household. Gilbert had put the box in his coat pocket and would never wear it, Break figured. It wasn’t his style anyway.

Gilbert kept fidgeting like he needed to smoke, a recent habit he had picked up, and Sharon gracefully offered to step outside with him to keep him company while he took a moment. Break was about to muse to himself on how thoughtful the young lady was until she touched his arm and told him to stay put with Vincent and keep him company. Which meant that she wanted to discuss something with Gilbert completely private and wanted Vincent to not disturb them. Clever girl.

So Break was left with Vincent who, when he yawned, showed off the abyss of his mouth and the white of his teeth. The only tie that he had to where they were was Gilbert, but he was out smoking on the balcony and talking to someone else, so Vincent sat looking horribly out of place, surrounded by the holiday decorations and forced merriment. Not in terms of physicality, Vincent was groomed as any noble would be, and old enough to know how to carry his shoulders, but…

“Mister Hatter,” Vincent called, and Break lost his train of thought in identifying what made Vincent feel so out of place. He wondered if Vincent did that on purpose, but there was no way he could know how. “would you help me?”

“I’m sorry?”

Vincent opened the box on his thighs and took out the chain, holding it in his fingers. Thin and long, they held the chain with two fingers on each side so the pendant dangled and swayed with his miniscule movements. Break, distantly, compared his hands to his brothers in his mind and considered the concept of achievement in destruction.

“I don’t think I could get it to fasten in the back,” he said, which was a reasonable request. “and I would like to try it on, Mister Hatter.”

Break had long since stopped worrying about getting Vincent to say his name. The idea of touching him physically didn’t appeal to him at all, but he knew there would be no denying the request- for sociological reasons or for the benefit of Sharon not having to hear about it. He motioned with a hand for Vincent to turn around, bowing his head before doing so; he had helped Sharon with necklaces plenty of times in the past. It shouldn’t be any different.

Vincent passed the chain into one hand carelessly before brushing his hair over to one shoulder. He turned in his chair but did not rise despite the fact that he was still shorter than Break and it would be easier to put it on him if he stood. So Break stooped low, taking the necklace from him to fit over his neck.

The back of his neck exposed, golden hair held to the side, made Break feel unsettled. He felt like he shouldn’t be looking at it, as if it was too personal, too submissive, too much, something that he never asked for. It was just skin, skin on the back of his neck, but it made him feel entirely too unwell. Something about not seeing Vincent’s face was even worse than seeing his facial expressions. He hesitated to even put the necklace on him for fear of brushing against his skin for even a moment.

If it was disgust, he didn’t know why he would feel inherently disgusted by seeing such an unremarkable part on a person’s body. Vincent’s neck had no blemishes or pocks to behold. It held no scars but Break wondered if that actually was the case or if it was his flawed eye playing a trick on him.

If he wrapped his hand around it and squeezed, could he leave a mark? Would his hands compliment his neck or make it look worse? Could he paint his skin and dig his nails in, scratch and tear at it until it couldn’t resemble the neck of Vincent Nightray any longer? Vincent refused to call him by his name and Break could make it so Vincent lacked a choice on that matter. He could peel away at him, reveal him until he was raw and bare, exposed at his throat, tearing away until he could see what he was made of. Perhaps then he could be rid of Vincent for good, be rid of the pest that he was, and not have to worry about him irritating him, bothering Gilbert, or tainting Sharon ever again. 

Would Vincent remain so nonchalant, even then, as Break tore into him? Would he try to stop him, or would his grin grow?

The Mad Hatter wailed and hummed behind his ears and he thought it unholy for Vincent to stir an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was easy to claim he was not the same man that fell into the Abyss, but Vincent had seen that man, hadn’t he? He knew him, he knew him even if Break forgot. And he was dragging it out with a chain around Break, forcibly, and making Break lose the convictions that made him who he was. He felt as if he was underwater, and when he opened his mouth it resembled the abyss of Vincent and the Abyss of the world.

Break fastened the necklace around Vincent’s neck and he shuddered when Break’s finger brushed his skin; Break recoiled away as if he had been bit. Vincent released his hair but kept it over one shoulder, turning his head to meet Break’s wary gaze. Vincent looked unbothered and coy but not defenseless.

Instead of thanking him or saying something a normal person would say, Vincent purred, “Did you feel that?”

Break knew better than responding to that. It was clearly bait for a conversation he did not want to have because of urges he did not want to confess.

“Feel what, sir?” ripped its way from his chest, his curiosity being his undoing as per usual.

“That.” Vincent insisted, still gazing up at Break, seemingly docile. “I felt it before, too, when I approached you years ago. Do you remember? I wanted to speak to you. I had felt it.”

Break did not respond and did not trust himself to respond to that. Vincent, however, didn’t seem to need prompting to clarify.

“It’s predation.”

That got a reaction out of him, and more than likely the one that Vincent wanted, for Break furrowed his brow and frowned in an expression that probably resembled Reim. He wasn’t sure exactly what his face had looked like prior to Vincent saying that, hadn’t had time to think about how his face was looking, but it definitely was frowning, puzzled and upset. Was Vincent implying that Break was a predator and Vincent was prey? Or the other way around? What gave him that impression?

"You can act on it, you know. I don't mind." Vincent smiled.

“I don’t understand,” Break admitted.

Vincent laughed then, tipping his head back to expose more of his neck. It did not incite the same reaction that Break had felt before which was both a relief and a concern; it was as if he was showing it off, in a way Break didn't understand. Vincent said, with a twinkle of mirth in his odd eyes, “I was kidding. It was a joke!”

Break quirked a lip forcibly, responded with “I see,” though he did not exactly believe that Vincent was telling the truth. He rubbed his tongue along his teeth and felt the tender spot that had pain from too much candy, and continued to consider which of them was hunting the other until Sharon granted him the mercy of her presence.

X

Break was loath to sleep and even more so loath to dream. His sleeping habits left much to be desired (truly, the people around him who were foolishly invested in his mortal life were always  _ very _ concerned about it) but it did the bare minimum for him, even if he felt uncomfortable leaving his body so defenseless for hours at a time. Though sleep had become even worse with time due to the nature of his dreams.

Vincent's neck always felt so very real in his mind, as if it wasn’t just a figment of his emotions and mentality, but really was there before him. The skin was smooth and warm in his dreams, much too real, and he could feel the fluttering pulse beneath it, sometimes rhythmic, sometimes erratic. He always had him pinned down, was always holding him prone, but any events prior to that didn't exist; Break always appeared in his dream mid strangulation.

Vincent seemed to hold no malice in his gaze even as Break choked him, which was unsettling. He looked loving. He looked understanding. And maybe it was the eyes that made him feel so terrible about it all when Break awoke, because in the moment of the dream they did not make him feel any mercy, but spurred him on even more. Vincent didn’t look like a captured animal, and Break thought that would have been the pleasurable part- though, perhaps, if his fantasies strayed too far from reality, they wouldn’t have been satisfying at all.

To admit even to himself that he took pleasure from the fantasy of harming Vincent Nightray was disgusting. It made him feel weak. It made him feel…

Vincent would say something in the dreams, to try and get words out, but context for whatever conversation they had been having prior was never something Break knew. Maybe it didn’t matter in Break’s mind, only the actions proceeding did. Break always was a man of action rather than thought anyhow. But Vincent would attempt to whisper out, if Break left him too much air, his name- or, rather, “Hatter”- and Break would tighten his grip on his neck and watch his face darken.

“You’re unarmed,” Break would point out, and Vincent would seem to laugh the best he could with what little air he had in his lungs. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had tried defending yourself, you know.” 

The unmistakable shaking of Vincent attempting to laugh would make Break shudder, though there was nothing that he would say. Prone where he was, his hair was splayed about him, golden and giving off the visage of him glowing if Break glanced at it. Perhaps it was his own brain telling him he was monstrous for doing what his instincts told him to, by making Vincent oddly beautiful in his mind's eye, but the message never felt clear enough to decipher. Though it was disturbing to think that he could picture in his own mind what Vincent Nightray would sound like trying to laugh with all of the air gone from him.

There was something that felt very natural about harming Vincent in a way that Break could never place and, when awake, didn’t want to figure out. His neck fit very well in his hands and the way he would sigh against his body felt very familiar. Perhaps it was the people he killed prior and Break was, in the most morbid way possible, craving the destruction of the past. Perhaps it really was predation. Perhaps it was destined for them to feel that way about each other. 

The dream would always evolve to being the same, however, and the pleasure Break took from his own aggression and power would always be cut short. Vincent’s mouth would twist into a grin and he would shift just so that Break would feel pain in his abdomen. He wouldn’t even need to look to check and see it, he knew what it was and they had done this dance many times in his own mind. He knew Vincent had stabbed him, though with a knife or with his preferred scissors it would be unclear. He supposed it didn’t really matter.

Being stabbed in his dreams was odd. He wouldn’t feel any physical pain but his mind would tell him that he was hurting, distantly, and that he should react to it. It was as if Break was supposed to feel pain but he had somehow forgotten what it felt like, all he knew to do was react. So Break would shudder and relinquish his grip on Vincent’s throat only a little, and he’d gasp, and he’d pant, but it wouldn’t really hurt him. Just the knowledge of the action would be pain enough.

Once free, even if Break had his hand still on him, Vincent would gasp for air but not like he needed it, as if he was only breathing loudly for the satisfaction of taking that from Break. He would wheeze and Break would feel that it was performative, and Vincent would twist his wheeze into a chuckle, which would twist even further into the words, “Why did you assume I was unarmed? You assume too much.”

Break didn’t exactly have an answer for him, though he would run over the idea of why Vincent would even allow Break to hurt him if he had a weapon on him. Vincent would then suddenly seize up, and it would always catch him off guard, though he would move his face to Break’s side and press his lips to his temple. The kiss was always unromantic and terrifyingly intimate.

Flush against him, Vincent would whisper on his skin, too close for comfort, “See? It’s in our nature to be like this.” His voice would be so, so terribly loving to the point that it was positively dripping with it, overflowing with it, it was spilling everywhere and staining the both of them. He would laugh at his own tone and twist his blade in further to poor dead Kevin Regnard and say, right before the day would steal him away, “We were meant to be like this.”

When the day  _ would  _ take hold of Break it would be violent, with a gasp and a shudder, throwing himself into consciousness desperately with air and daylight that he simply couldn’t get enough of. It was a funny way to get him to appreciate the smell and sounds of the Rainsworth household but it was incredibly effective, and in those moments of being freshly awake there was nothing he loved more. 

Looking into the idea of whether or not the Dormouse could influence the dreams of others had turned up unsuccessful, much to Break’s dismay, though he could not confess to anyone why he had been looking into that information in the first place. In fact, he couldn’t even confess that he had been having those sort of dreams for a long, long time.

X

It had been almost ten years since Sharon had taken some time to herself and refused to leave her room. He had been watching her like a hawk and keeping tabs on her health, and he knew she had recovered but he was taken aback to hear that she had been refusing meals and hadn’t even gotten dressed that day. Sharon was not one to take a lazy, completely unproductive day even if her privileged lifestyle could afford it, and it was a trait of hers that Break enjoyed- her motivation, her honestly, her will.

It was a bright day, about as bright as she was, ending the torrent of long cold days back to back. He knew that going outside and getting some sun would heal her of all of her wounds, visible and not.

But as he stood in the doorway of her room, having knocked twice but heard no response, he saw none of that. The curtains were drawn and the room dreary and dark, her face not visible from where she lay and the hair that spread about her to shield her from his gaze. She either had not heard him calling for her or she didn’t care.

At first Break was concerned she had fallen ill- he was sure all traces of the poison were gone from her body and though he knew nothing of the after effects that could take hold, she was not gasping for breath as she had been days before. In fact, he could barely hear her, but what he could make out in the suffocating silence of the room was choked off sobs that were smothered and eaten by her pillow.

Her shoulders were shaking and she seemed to be clutching the sheets around her, and in that moment he felt her hands were so small, so much smaller than her mothers. He considered it a shame that she would never, ever grow to look like her mother, and was stuck at the age of when she died.

Break knew what the correct move was. He should go inside and touch her shoulder, to steady her, to ground her to him. He should offer her comfort. He should sit with her and be patient. If she had something to say, he should listen to it. If she didn’t have anything to say, he should listen to the silence where her words would be. He should attempt to drink the silence of the air by trying to make her laugh like he would when she was a child. He had to look into her undoubtedly puffy eyes despite desperately not wanting to.

His lone eye found her vanity, and on it was a hairbrush. He could offer to brush her hair, to braid it to her exact specifications, in whatever hairstyle she could want. And if he messed it up it would be funny, and if he got it right she would not praise him for it should be expected. He was loyal. He could use his hands for good, to make something she would like. He should be good at following orders, it was his purpose.

His footsteps carried him away and his arms betrayed him by closing the door, feeling sick with it all. He left, even if there was nowhere to go, for he knew the Rainsworth home was his too, even if he was unworthy of it all. The heart of the property had been attacked because he was away and he knew that, and he couldn’t pretend that things would be the same. He couldn’t pretend that the venomous creature hadn’t gotten Sharon, and he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t want to kill it with his own hands. He wanted to hurt Vincent as he had hurt Break, as he had hurt Sharon, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He needed to go out into the brush and chase away the threat far, far away from the property, needed it so badly that it was coming out of him in little chitters. And he knew that instinct to be predation, and he reveled in it, worshiping the destruction he could achieve with his hands.

And yet, for all his needing and wanting, Xerxes Break sat uselessly in the hallway, away from his crying mistress, unable to be what she needed and unable to give what she craved. He couldn’t even satisfy his own instincts to destruction, couldn’t satisfy the wailing of the Mad Hatter or the wailing in his heart. And he deemed it so very sad that despite the nature of him, he was so toothless that instead of hunting he would choose to be docile; he deemed it so very sad to be lesser than Vincent Nightray. 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to @soft boi on Discord for beta reading. I've literally never written from Break's POV before and wanted to work with someone who loved Break so much. Wouldn't have finished this without your help.
> 
> Mongoose and Cobra metaphors are fun and something I love. 
> 
> Anyways, leave me some feedback, write Vincent&Break so I'll have something to read, if you want to chat Pandora Hearts and you don't know where to find me yet, you can hmu on Tumblr, Twitter, or Discord. All of those are under @teamseaslug except for Twitter, which is under @teamseaslugyay.


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